


Reflections

by whichclothes



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-20
Updated: 2010-09-20
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:25:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whichclothes/pseuds/whichclothes





	1. Chapter 1

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [reflections](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/reflections), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fangel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**Title:** Reflections  
 **Chapter** : 1 of 2   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summ** **ary:**  Angel gets a mirror as a gift. From the prompts _imprisonment_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , and _selling your soul_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) , and _magic mirror_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  (for which I'm a couple days late).  
 **A/N:**   This fic is complete. I'll post the second part later today. Huge thanks to my amazing beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) !

 _  
**Reflections (part 1 of 2)**   
_

**  
Reflections**

Part One  


 

At first Angel assumed it was someone’s stupid joke, someone’s idea of a hilarious vampire gag gift. He ducked back out of his office and glared at Harmony. “There’s a mirror in there.”

She looked up from her magazine. “Yeah. These guys, like, delivered it a couple hours ago. While you were in that meeting.”

“What guys?”

She shrugged. “Delivery guys.”

“But where did it come from?”

“The mirror factory? Duh.”

He gave up and went back in his office to examine the thing. It wasn’t fancy, just a full-length mirror with a pale wooden frame. It was attached to a stand that kept it upright. It looked like something you could pick up at Ikea; so not only was it useless to him, but it wasn’t even his taste in furniture. There was no tag or note affixed to it, no indication of where it was from or why it was there. He buzzed Harmony.

“Yes, bossy?”

“Have someone come take the mirror away.”

“Where do you want it?”

“I don’t care. I just don’t want it here.” And then he buried his face in a 318-page contract between the firm and a clan of Ghungri demons who claimed to be peaceful vegetarians, and he forgot all about the stupid mirror.

When he looked up again, hours later, the mirror was still there. “Fuck,” he said to himself and buzzed Harmony. But it was—he checked his Rolex—after 7 p.m. and she was long gone. And there was that stupid mirror in the middle of his office. Mocking him.

Fine, then. He’d carry it out into the hall himself and someone could take it away in the morning. He stomped over to the thing and grasped its frame, which meant he was looking directly into the glass.

He expected to see the things behind him—his desk, his chair, the wall. Instead, he saw a small, plain room. It was as if he were looking into the room through a window or a door. The room was a cell, really, with gray stone walls and floor, a dim light emanating from the entire ceiling, and, huddled in the corner, a naked man. The man’s face was hidden against his knees, but Angel recognized him anyway. The day-glo hair was a dead giveaway.

“Spike!” Angel bellowed.

Spike looked up very quickly and blinked at him. Then Spike stood—with some difficulty as his body was badly bruised—and limped closer. He put his hands up, but the glass remained between them, and Angel couldn’t touch him. “Angel,” he said. His voice was muffled and hard to hear.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?”

“Playing the bloody trombone. What does it _look_ like I’m doing? Get me out of here!”

“You’re in a mirror, Spike.”

“I’m _what_ now?”

“You’re in a mirror. Someone had a mirror delivered to my office and you’re in it. See?” But when he stepped back to allow Spike to see, Spike and the cell disappeared and all that remained was a reflection of the office. He touched the frame again and Spike reappeared, looking considerably shaken.

“Don’t do that,” Spike said.

“When I let go—”

“You went away. There was only a stone wall.”

“Fuck. How the hell did you end up in a mirror? And…like that?” He waved his hand to indicate Spike’s bare and battered body.

“Don’t know, do I? Was sound asleep in my flat and these…these things jumped me. Big buggers. I fought, but…. Anyway, I woke up here. Been here a while, I reckon. It’s hard to tell. There’s no door or windows and I’ve nothing to feed from and I’m bloody hungry.”

“Leave it to you….” Angel sighed. “Okay, step back.” Spike did. Angel balled his hand into a fist and hit the glass as hard as he could. And he bruised his knuckles and possibly broke a finger, but the glass remained intact.

“Didn’t eat your Wheaties this morning?” Spike smirked.

“Shut up.” Angel kicked at the glass instead, putting all his strength into it. But although the mirror was wrenched out of his hand and fell onto its back, the glass didn’t so much as crack.

“Shit,” he muttered, righting the thing again. Spike was looking a little alarmed.

There was a heavy iron…thing on the desk. It had been a gift from a Per’chuchli demon, and it was shaped kind of like a giant lumpy banana. Angel had no idea what it was for—whether it had a particular purpose or was just the Per’chuchli idea of fine art. In any case, he’d kept it out because he had more meetings coming up with the demon and Angel didn’t want to offend her. Now though, Angel took the thing in his hands and swung it against the mirror. The mirror toppled again, the metal object dented, and Angel felt the blow all the way through his hands and arms.

“Get me out,” Spike said again when Angel picked the mirror up. Now Spike was sounding desperate and forlorn.

“I’m trying. It’s…well, it’s obviously a magic mirror. Can you break it from your side?”

Spike looked at him for a moment and then kicked at the glass. Of course nothing happened to the glass, but Spike yelped and fell to his knees. “Bloody thugs worked me over,” he gasped.

“And you can’t heal without blood.”

“Cheers, Einstein.” Spike had to brace his hand on the wall to haul himself to his feet again.

Angel stared at him. For a brief moment he considered just leaving the little nuisance locked in his prison. Spike was such a pain in the ass all the time. Spike must have read his thoughts, because Spike’s eyes went hard and glittery and his jaw clenched tightly. “Right,” Spike said and began to walk away.

“Wait!”

Spike turned around slowly. He was holding himself as if he expected to be hit.

“I’m gonna go get some help, okay?” Angel’s voice came out gentler than he expected. “We’ll figure out some way to spring you.”

Spike took a shuddering breath and nodded. “Ta. Just…hurry up, yeah?” And he went to his corner and sat with his back wedged into the wall.

 

***

 

“Well, it’s clearly mystical in nature.”

Angel and Spike both rolled their eyes. “How do we get him out?” Angel asked impatiently for what seemed like the hundredth time.

Wesley frowned. They’d already established that Spike was only visible if Angel touched the mirror. If Wes touched it instead, it just gave off an ordinary reflection. Wes had tried to break it, to no avail, and he’d thrown a few strings of Latin and Greekand Sanskrit at it, none of which harmed the mirror at all (although one of the spells did start a small fire on the carpet). They decided that more aggressive moves against the object were probably a bad idea—what if the mirror were destroyed with Spike still trapped inside?

“I’ll do some research straight away,” Wes said. “But I believe that the best way to free Spike will probably be to discover who imprisoned him. Have you any idea who’s responsible?”

“Well, it _is_ Spike. Who doesn’t want to lock him up?”

Spike flipped two fingers at him but couldn’t quite hide the panic in his face.

Wes, as usual, ignored their interchange. “It’s not just about Spike. Whoever is responsible for this wanted you involved, Angel. Otherwise the mirror wouldn’t have been brought to you and it wouldn’t activate at your touch.”

“Figures,” Spike said, scowling at Angel. “Wanker.”

“Hey! I didn’t have anything to do with this.”

Spike shot him another angry, hopeless look and then curled up in his corner again. He was too thin, Angel couldn’t help noticing. It had been several days since Angel had last seen him, and he assumed that Spike had been locked up that whole time.

“Angel, perhaps you might wish to move the mirror somewhere safer? I’m going to see what I can find out, but I suggest you conduct some inquiries of your own in the meantime.”

Angel thought a moment and then nodded. “Okay. I’ll make some calls. Look, if you can’t get him out right away can you at least maybe find a way to get blood in?”

“I’ll do my best.”

When Wes had gone, Angel spent a few moments staring at Spike. Then he lifted the mirror under one arm—it weighed practically nothing—and carried it into his private elevator. Up in the penthouse, he couldn’t decide at first where to put it. Finally he set it down next to the couch, angled so Spike could look out and see the television. Angel fell asleep with one hand still on the mirror’s frame.

 

***

 

For several days, neither he nor Wes made any headway in figuring out what was going on. Angel spent as much time as possible up in his apartment holding the mirror, because Spike seemed to grow smaller and weaker each time he was left alone. “Could’ve at least left me my fags,” Spike said quietly from his usual corner. “Or a blanket. This floor is bloody cold.”

Angel didn’t answer him.

“What’s it like, Liam? The coma, I mean?”

Angel automatically shuddered, but then he said, “It wasn’t too bad. I had dreams. Good dreams, mostly.”

“Well, that’d be a bit of all right. Haven’t had anything but nightmares since the soul.”

“Are you sorry you did it?”

“Did what?”

“The soul.”

Spike pondered that a moment. “No. ‘M not sorry.”

“When we get you out of there—”

“If you get me out, you mean.”

“ _When_ we get you out, will you go to Buffy?”

Spike lifted an eyebrow. “Still stuck on the Slayer, are you?”

“No. I just—”

“Don’t want me to have her if you can’t.”

Angel opened his mouth to argue, then closed it. The truth was, he wasn’t sure why he did care. Spike was…well, he was Spike. But he’d been there when Buffy needed him, hadn’t he?

“You needn’t worry,” Spike said after a short pause. “I’ll stay away.”

“Don’t you still love her?”

“Of course. Still love Dru as well. Doesn’t mean they love me back. I’m not completely thick, you know. And the soul, burning…well, they clarified things a bit for me.”

Angel was sitting in his armchair with the mirror beside him as they had this conversation, but now he scooted around to look at Spike. Spike wasn’t looking back at him. The captive vampire looked small and exhausted and vulnerable. Angel had a sudden and mystifying urge to throw his arms around him, to comfort him.

 

***

 

Five days after that, Spike couldn’t stand or walk anymore. He lay curled on his side, barely moving at all. His skin looked dry and cracked, with the bruises still livid blues and blacks and purples, his hair had gone dull, and his cheekbones were like sharp blades. He didn’t speak much anymore, but he seemed to like it when Angel talked to him, so Angel did. He rambled on, really, dredging up old adventures they’d almost forgotten, telling Spike some of the things that he’d done all those years he was alone, and then after he arrived in LA. Sometimes he even talked about Sunnydale, and he was surprised when he found his own reminiscences were gentle and fond instead of bitter. Sometimes Spike laughed a sound like stones rattling at the bottom of a dry well.

Angel knew Wes wasn’t getting much sleep, but still Angel kept calling him, telling him to try harder, to hurry. “Whoever did this to him must want something!” Angel said again and again. “Otherwise why go to all this trouble? Why not just dust him?” But Wes had no answers.

Lorne came up to the penthouse twice and Fred and Gunn once, but Spike didn’t want them to see him like that, and they just patted Angel’s arm awkwardly and then left.

Harmony called up and said there were some papers that needed signing immediately, so he told Spike he’d be back soon and then he rode down to his office. The pile of papers was pretty impressive—over a week’s worth of crap—and it took him forever to make any leeway. Down near the bottom though, there was an envelope, plain and white, with nothing at all on it except “Angel” printed in thin blue ink by a shaky hand. He slit the envelope and pulled out the single sheet of folded paper.

 _  
Dear Angel,  
_

 _  
I hope you’ll forgive the familiarity. I must confess that I have no idea what your last name is, if indeed you have one at all. Perhaps, like so many celebrities, you prefer a single sobriquet.  
_

 _  
By now you must have received my gift. I do hope you are enjoying it. Should you wish to discuss some matters that may prove mutually beneficial, please contact me at your leisure.  
_

 

 _  
S.C. Bissell  
_

 _  
555-8312  
_

 

Angel ran out of his office, the note and envelope clutched tightly in his hand. “Harmony!” he yelled.

She was painting her nails. “Yeah?”

“When did this arrive?”

She glanced with faint interest at the papers in his hands. “Oh, I don’t know. A few days ago I guess.”

 “And you didn’t tell me?”

“You didn’t ask. You were all with the ‘I’m brooding over Spikey now, do not disturb’ so I didn’t.”

He fought the urge to drop his fangs. “Where did it come from?”

She shrugged and blew on her left fingertips. “The mailroom?”

He growled and ran to find Wes.

 

***

 

Angel was to meet Bissell in the lounge at the Universal City Hilton. Before he left the penthouse, Angel told Spike he’d be back soon with a solution. Spike didn’t answer, and Angel wasn’t sure whether he could even hear him anymore.

Angel didn’t like the lounge. It was bright with artificial lighting and had big atrium windows that would have fried him in a minute during the day. It was noisy too, full of drunken professors from a sociology conference as well as a few vacationers who were cranky from dragging their kids all over the theme park. Angel had no idea what S.C. Bissell looked like, but Bissell must have recognized him, because as Angel stood there scanning the room, an elderly man in one corner waved at him.

As Angel got closer though, he realized the man wasn’t so old after all. In fact, he was probably only in his late 40s. But he looked withered and dry, his skin hanging on him as if he’d once been a much larger man but had suddenly lost a lot of weight. His hair was gray and very thin, and his hands were palsied as they rested on the glass tabletop. He looked seriously ill. He smiled at Angel, revealing crooked yellow teeth. “Thank you for coming. Please. Sit down.” He had a faint accent that Angel couldn’t quite place. Eastern Europe, maybe.

Angel sat opposite the man and glared. A waitress came by a moment later. She brought Bissell a fresh glass of mineral water with lime and she took Angel’s order for a whiskey.

“Let him go,” Angel said in a quiet, threatening tone.

But the man just kept smiling and took a sip of his water. “So you really are attached to him. I thought so.”

“Let him _go_!” He said it loud enough that the people at nearby tables turned to stare, but Bissell didn’t even flinch.

“You can’t scare me, Angel. You can probably tell from looking at me—I’m dying. And what’s waiting for me isn’t pleasant at all, as you know quite well.”

“What do you want?”

“Ah, right to the point, no small talk. I admire that. Well.” Another sip of water. “It’s like this. Some years ago I managed to acquire a magical bauble. Very rare and expensive, but I inherited plenty and wasn’t interested in wasting it the way my peers did, on flashy cars and flashier women. No, I had my lucky charm, and I used it to increase my fortune. I used it in a number of unsavory ways as well.”

“What does this have to do with Spike?”

“Patience! You see, after some time it became clear that use of my magic had a continuing price: it gradually stole my health and ate away at my soul. I could have stopped using it, I suppose, but I was addicted. And now I’m dying and my soul is fully mortgaged, and I’m finding myself in quite distressing circumstances indeed.”

“So?”

Just then the waitress reappeared. She placed Angel’s drink in front of him and Bissell paid her. He paid her a lot, actually—$20—and told her to keep the change, which made her dimple at him even though she was well past dimpling age.

“So I wish to improve my circumstances, and I believe you are my key to doing so. But I suspected you wouldn’t simply help out of the goodness of your heart—you _do_ have a heart, don’t you?—and although I’ve plenty of money, I doubt that would tempt you either. I asked myself what you might value and, well, there was your progeny. I hired some goons and temporarily confined him. It did get your attention, did it not?”

“You’re starving him.”

Bissell looked chagrined. “I’m sorry. The cell—it’s a construct, you see. A place between the planes of existence.” When Angel just narrowed his eyes, Bissell smiled. “Well, you’d have to know your magics quite well to understand. I could put him in there, but nothing else. No clothing, no bedding, no blood.”

Angel downed his entire whiskey. “Fine. You have my attention. What do you want?”

Bissell looked triumphant. “I want my soul back. But I can’t have it, so I’ll take someone else’s. Yours, actually, seeing as yours is only tentatively attached to begin with.”

“You want my _soul_?”

“I do. It’s not in the most pristine condition, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

“And if I refuse?”

“I’ll be dead soon and I’ll go to hell. And Spike will be stuck forever in that mirror.”

Angel was so furious he couldn’t even think for a moment, but could only clench his teeth and tighten his hands into fists and try to control the urge to rip the man into tiny pieces.

He could just walk away. Or he could break Bissell’s neck. He could go back to the office and continue his…whatever it was he was doing there. Spike would never trouble him again, and Spike wouldn’t exactly suffer. He’d only….

Fuck.

“You get him out of there first. I want to see him free and in good shape.”

Bissell grinned hugely. “Of course. I’ll even give you a few days together. But you understand—I can return him to captivity at any time, and if I die without a soul, he’ll automatically be thrust back into that mirror.”

Angel nodded savagely.

“Excellent! It takes a bit of preparation and concentration, and I’m quite tired now. By nine in the morning he’ll no longer be imprisoned. And then I will be seeing you, let’s see…Monday. That’s four days from now.”

With a final growl, Angel nodded again and then swept out of the Hilton.

 

***

 

“Angel, this is a terrible idea.”

“No shit, Wes. But you got a better one?”

Wes’s lips went very thin. “You could…you could leave him there.”

“No.”

“But your soul, Angel!”

“Yeah. So, look. Are you gonna be capable of dusting me? Because I’m not sure that Spike’ll be recovered enough and there’s nobody else I trust.”

“I don’t understand why you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for him.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Angel sighed.

Wes shook his head, but then he opened the SUV’s tailgate so Angel could slide the mirror inside. Angel lifted a cooler full of blood and placed it next to the mirror, then slammed the tailgate shut. “I’ll see you Monday,” Angel said.

Wes just frowned at him, and remained standing in the parking garage as the SUV drove away.

Angel hadn’t been back to the Hyperion in months and everything was dusty. His old suite was still in shambles and held some particularly painful memories, so he carried the mirror and the blood into another room instead. He left them there while he dug some clean bedding out of the supply closet, then he made up the room's two beds. Finally, he sat on the edge of a mattress and placed his hand on the mirror’s wooden frame. Spike was there, of course, unmoving on the floor of his cell.

“Hey,” Angel said. Probably Spike couldn’t hear him, but maybe he could. “Just hold on a little bit longer, okay? Just a few more hours and you’ll be free. It’ll be all right, William.”

Yeah, sure it would.

 **[Part Two](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/205789.html) **   


 


	2. </strong> Reflections

  
  
  
  
  


**Entry tags:**

| 

  
[angst_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/angst_bingo), [hc_bingo](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/hc_bingo), [reflections](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/reflections), [spike/angel](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/tag/spike%2Fangel)  
  
  
---|---  
  
**  
Title:** Reflections  
 **Chapter** : 2 of 2   
 **Pairing:**  Spike/Angel  
 **Rating:**  NC-17  
 **Disclaimer:**  I'm not Joss  
 **Summ** **ary:**  Angel gets a mirror as a gift. From the prompts _imprisonment_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/profile)[**hc_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/hc_bingo/) , and _selling your soul_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/profile)[**angst_bingo**](http://community.livejournal.com/angst_bingo/) , and _magic mirror_ from [](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/profile)[**nekid_spike**](http://community.livejournal.com/nekid_spike/)  (for which I'm a couple days late).  
 **A/N:**   This fic is complete.  Huge thanks to my amazing beta, [](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/profile)[**silk_labyrinth**](http://silk-labyrinth.livejournal.com/) !

Previous [part here](http://whichclothes.livejournal.com/205485.html).

 _  
**Reflections (part 2 of 2)**   
_

**Part Two**   


  
      He paused in his pacing and glanced at his watch for the five hundredth time. It was 8:53. He still had seven minutes to change his mind. To save his soul.

It’s not like he’d wanted the fucking thing to begin with. It had _hurt_ , like holy water in his chest, and at first he’d have given anything to unload the heavy thing. But after a while he got used to it, the way you got used to getting taller when you were a kid, or the way you got used to a lover’s scent. When he actually had shed the soul—first in Sunnydale and then again just a year ago—he’d been relieved to get it back. It fit comfortably now, like broken-in shoes.

On the other hand, there was a part of him that was exulting at the prospect of being freed. That part of him was arrogant enough to believe he’d escape the former Watcher’s stake, that Angelus would somehow break free and play his bloody games again.

The rest of Angel was terrified of that thought.

So trading his soul was a bad, bad idea, and he was trading it for _Spike_ for Christ’s sake. Not for Buffy. Not to save the world. Just to free one smallish, supremely irritating vampire. The same vampire who had got them in trouble back in the nineteenth century more times than he could count, and who had betrayed him in Sunnydale and had him tortured with pokers. The same vampire who—

Oh, who the fuck did he think he was kidding?

Angel sat down on the rumpled bed and touched a single finger to the mirror. He looked at the Rolex again. 8:59.

The mirror lurched away from him as if there were an earthquake, only nothing else was moving. It fell over and began to shake rapidly while making an excruciating screeching sound, like God’s fingernails on a celestial chalkboard. Angel clapped his hands over his ears, but that didn’t help. The mirror bounced and jumped, the air around it got thick and wavy, there was a tremendous _crash_ , and then everything was still and silent. The mirror was gone. In its place was Spike, curled into a tight ball and looking like something dragged out of a pyramid.

“Spike?” Angel said. His ears were still ringing.

Spike didn’t respond. Angel bent and picked him up. He was as light as a young child and his skin felt like old paper. He looked even more awful up close like this, skeletal and still sporting deep bruises. Angel set him down very gingerly on the bed, straightened Spike’s limbs so he looked slightly more natural, and pulled a blanket over him. Then, after a brief pause, Angel vamped out and tore his fangs into his own wrist.

When he first pressed his wrist to Spike’s mouth, Spike didn’t react at all. Angel watched the thick red fluid run over Spike’s white cheek and down onto the pillow. But then a few drops must have trickled between slack lips and onto Spike’s tongue, because Spike convulsed, made a horrible growling whine, and latched his suddenly very sharp teeth into Angel’s flesh.

Angel let him drink. He hadn’t been fed from in a very, very long time, and it felt so strange: blood being pulled out of him instead of in. The fangs hurt, but it otherwise wasn’t an unpleasant sensation, and Spike’s lips were very soft on his skin.

Spike moved his hands up and grasped Angel’s hand and forearm. Hard. Keeping his food source in place. Angel waited patiently.

He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded when Spike’s eyelids fluttered open, revealing those amazing blue eyes. For a few moments, Spike continued to drink, staring up at Angel the way a nursing baby observes its mother. Then his gaze sharpened and he weakly pushed Angel’s arm away.

“Let me get you some more,” Angel said and stood.

He came back to the bed a few seconds later with several plastic packets of blood. Human. Bloodbank blood, of only slightly dubious provenance. Angel propped Spike up on a few extra pillows and, when Spike seemed to lack the strength to hold the bags himself, Angel did it for him. Spike emptied a half dozen of them before he was through.

“Where?” he rasped then.

“My hotel. I figured…I figured it’d be quieter here.”

Spike looked around the room briefly and then back at Angel. “How?”

“I found the asshole who put you there. Persuaded him to free you.”

Spike’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“What is this, Twenty Questions? It doesn’t matter, okay? It’s taken care of.” Angel stood. “And you’re getting my clean sheets filthy. Bath?”

Spike cocked his head and gave him that stare, that one that said Angel had no secrets from him. But then he sighed and tipped his head back on the pillow. “A bath sounds lovely.”

Angel had to go back to his old suite to get some soap and shampoo, and to the supply closet for clean towels, but he then returned to the room where Spike lay dozing and filled the tub with water as hot as it would go. He scooped Spike into his arms again—still looking like death, but maybe a tiny bit improved—and carried him into the bathroom, setting him down in the tub.

“Brilliant,” Spike moaned. “Haven’t had a bath in ages. My flat only has a shower.” He sank so low that everything but his head and bent knees was submerged, and he closed his eyes in bliss.

He didn’t open them when Angel picked up a washcloth and a cake of black soap that smelled faintly of myrtle and sandalwood. And when Angel moved the cloth over Spike’s skin, slowly, mindful of the still-evident wounds, Spike moaned again. He practically purred. Angel was reminded of other baths, long ago, when minions carried buckets of heated water to fill the tub, and when the hair trailing in the water had been longer and light brown instead of nearly white. When Angel had played with the boy, teasing him until William had begged him, practically in tears, for permission to climax. And Angelus had been merciful, stroking him until he spent into the cooling water. And then the boy had climbed out of the tub and bent himself over the edge, and Angelus had taken him like that, still wet and warm and smelling of soap.

“Gonna take off all my skin, pouf,” Spike said mildly, and Angel returned to LA and the twenty-first century.

“Sorry.”

Spike gave him a small, crooked grin. “Memory Lane, is it?”

“No! No, I—” Angel huffed and opened the drain. When the water had emptied he dried Spike off—too roughly at first, and then Spike made a tiny grunt of pain and Angel remembered to ease up. Spike’s hair was a curled, snarled mess and Angel wanted to comb it out, but Spike looked so exhausted that Angel set him on the other bed—the one with clean sheets—and tucked him in.

Spike looked up at him with a soft smile. “Ta,” he mumbled and promptly fell asleep.

 

***

 

Spike got stronger over the following days. His bruises faded and disappeared. His skin became soft and pliable again and his frame filled out with its usual compact muscles. He moved around a little too, heating his own blood in the microwave Angel brought in, standing at the window after sunset and staring down into the courtyard.

Angel left him alone most of the time, instead spending hours down in his old office, trying to get some personal matters straightened out. He had a lot of money squirreled away in various places, and he wanted Fred and Lorne and Wes and Gunn to find it. He transferred title of the Hyperion itself to Spike, which required a little bit of creative paperwork since Spike himself didn’t officially exist. But Angel had learned a few things at the law firm, and he managed. He wrote two letters as well, one to Buffy and one to Spike, and left them on his desk where he hoped Spike would find them...later.

He slept in the same room as Spike. Not in the same bed. But he could hear Spike breathing—silly demon always seemed to forget he didn’t need to—and the sound was strangely intimate. Comforting.

On Monday morning he awoke to discover Spike sitting up in bed, staring at him. “What?” Angel said.

“Was wondering.”

“Wondering what?”

“What the price was for my freedom.”

“Who said there was a price?”

“There’s always a price, Liam.”

Angel made a sour face at him. “Don’t worry about it. It’s no big deal.”

“Hmm,” Spike replied, apparently unconvinced. “When did you stop hating me, then?”

“I didn’t—I never hated you, Spike.”

A scarred eyebrow lifted. “Could have fooled me.”

“You’re a royal pain in the ass, Spike, but I don’t hate you.”

Spike leered slightly. “I seem to recall when you were a pain in _my_ arse. Once upon a time.”

Angel would have blushed, if he’d been able. “That was…it was a long time ago.”

“But I still remember. So do you, I expect.”

Angel got up out of bed—he was wearing silk pajama bottoms—and stood in front of the open closet as if he were trying to decide what to wear.

“I could refresh your memory, mind you. If you fancy it.”

Angel turned around to stare incredulously at him. “You’re _injured_.”

“Not so much anymore. You’ve shagged me when I was in worse shape than this. You _put_ me in worse shape than this and then shagged me, actually. Come on, Peaches. I’ll even try not to make you perfectly happy.”

Truthfully, Angel had been badly tempted by Spike’s offer, mostly because he _did_ remember their couplings quite clearly. But Spike’s last sentence reminded him painfully of what was in store for him that evening and he shook his head. Spike looked disappointed and fell back on his pillows.

Angel grabbed some clothes and took them into the bathroom to dress, like some sort of shy maiden.

Angel didn’t know what Spike spent his day doing; Angel kept himself tucked away in the office, flipping pages in books without really reading them. He was startled when he heard the front door open, even though he’d been expecting it.

“Are you still quite sure?” Wes said, striding through the lobby.

“Too late to change my mind now, Wes.”

“And…how is Spike?”

“He’s fine. He’ll be okay.”

“Have you told him—”

“No! he can find out…later.”

Wes nodded solemnly. “Shall we, then? It’s nearly time.”

Angel took a deep breath. “Yeah. Okay.” He had a momentary urge to run upstairs and say goodbye, but that would only create complications. It was better this way, he told himself firmly. So he led Wesley to the door that led to the basement, and then down the stairs.

They both stood silently for a moment, staring at the open cell and at the crossbow and stakes that Angel had placed on a table several feet away. “Think you can hit me from there?” Angel asked eventually.

“I’m quite skilled with a crossbow.”

“Yeah. Look, don’t come too close to the cage, all right?”

“I remember that quite well.”

“And don’t.... I might…. Angelus will probably play tricks on you. Don’t let him fool—”

“Angel, I _know_.”

Angel nodded a little jerkily and walked towards the cell. When he was inside, he slammed the bars shut. Wes came up then and wrapped a heavy chain around the door to hold it closed; he fastened the chain with a large lock. Angel had already tested the chain and lock: he wouldn’t be able to break them.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” Wes asked softly.

“Take care of yourself. And Fred and…the rest of them. Tell them thank you for me.”

“I will.”

“And Spike…he doesn’t do very well on his own, you know? If he wants to kind of hang around you guys, will you let him?”

“I doubt very much we would have much choice in the matter, if that was what he wished to do.” They exchanged small smiles. “It’s nearly time, is it not?”

Angel was about to answer him when someone ripped his chest to shreds.

 

***

 

The Watcher was squinting at him. Good. He hadn’t picked up the bow yet.

“Wes,” Angelus moaned.

“Is it done?”

Angelus rolled slowly to his knees and then used the wall to brace himself as he rose to his feet. He didn’t hurt at all—he felt really friggin’ good, actually—but it wouldn’t do to let Wesley know that. Not yet.

“It didn’t work,” Angelus said. Man, it was really hard to look all sad and broody when what he wanted to do was howl and dance a little jig. “It didn’t work, and—Christ! Spike! We need to go check on him!”

“That was a rather pathetic effort, Angelus. Feeling off your game?”

“No! I’m not him. Not that evil, mean….” Angelus laughed. “Okay. You got me. Tell me, Wes: what do you see in that sad, do-gooding ninny?”

“I am proud to count Angel as my friend.”

Angelus laughed. “Friend? You mean you wish he’d bugger you blind. C’mon, Wes. Even the Celibate Wonder knows you have the hots for him. Hey, not that I can blame you. Pretty nice package.” He ran a hand down his chest and then cupped his crotch with it. Oh, that felt good. Stupid self-flagellating ass didn’t even jerk off very often.

Wes just stared at him.

“Tell you what, old boy. You let me out of here and I’ll give you a pity fuck. It’ll be good. You’ll be gushing about it in your diary for weeks. That’s something pretty little Fred could never give you. Even if she was willing to look twice at you. But then, she’s got Gunn, hasn’t she? I’m sure he’s better equipped than you to keep her satisfied, with that big black cock of his.”

Wes sighed. “Really, Angelus. I would have thought racism was beneath you.”

“Give me the key and _you_ can be beneath me. And hey, I’m even willing to overlook that fact that you’re a stinking Sassenach.”

The man wasn’t even rattled. Damn. He’d toughened up a little in the last year, apparently. Wes reached for the crossbow and Angelus chuckled. “You dust me and you’ll never know the truth.”

Wesley raised his eyebrows.

“The truth about your memories. The self-righteous bastard fucked with them, you know. Stole the true ones from you and left you with lies. Don’t you want to know what really happened last year?” There was no better way to tempt people than with honesty.

But Wes raised the bow to his shoulder.

“Wait!” Angelus yelled, beginning to panic. “I’m not lying. Your precious Angel fucked Darla and they had a baby, Wes, a human baby. But you thought Angel was gonna kill him so you kidnapped the kid and he ended up in a hell dimension, and when he came back a few months later he was grown up and he fucked Cordelia and she gave birth to this gorgeous evil god lady and—”

Wes was fitting the arrow into the bow. “Truly, Angelus. You can do better than that.”

“It’s true, goddamn it! The god’s name was Jasmine, and—” Wes was sighting the arrow at him and Angelus backed up against the wall and held his hands up, although he knew that wasn’t going to help at all. “Let’s talk about this, Wes. We can reach some kind of a deal. These months with Wolfram & Hart, I’ve learned some interesting stuff. I can tell you things—”

“There’s nothing I care to hear from you.”

Wes’s hands were very steady. Angelus remembered the century when he’d been trapped in hell with Angel. “I’m going to find a way to come back, Wes, you wait and see. And when I do I’m gonna rip your—”

“Goodbye, Angelus.”

“Wait!!”

Wes swung around and, in the process, lost control of the arrow, which went flying across the basement until it bounced off a wall. “Oi! Be careful with those bloody things!” Spike said, making his way slowly down the stairs.

“Spike, what are you doing?” Wes asked.

But before Spike could answer, Angelus said, “William, you gotta help me! Something’s wrong with Wes. I think working at that place has got to him. He’s trying to dust me.”

Spike made it to the bottom of the steps and limped over. He was wearing a pair of Angel’s pants, which were far too big for him and made him look like a child playing dress-up. But of course he didn’t have any clothes of his own at the hotel. Spike rolled his eyes. “Give it a rest. As if I couldn’t suss out the difference between ‘Gelus and Angel in a bloody second. Didn’t work when Angel tried to pretend he was you either, remember?”

Angelus snarled at him. “Stupid little whore. Do you know what he did for your skinny ass?”

“I expect I do,” Spike said, and that’s when Angelus saw he had a piece of paper in his hand.

“What’s that?” Wes asked, spying the paper as well.

“Love letter from Peaches. Wes, why the bloody hell did you let him do it?”

“I didn’t really have any choice, did I? He was quite insistent. We couldn’t find any other way to set you free and…well, he cares about you a great deal.”

Angelus growled in frustration. “Why don’t you two girls stop gossiping and just do the group hug already? Or maybe you’re gonna screw. You’ll like him, Wes. Really nice and tight, and so responsive, and he makes these goddamn sexy noises….”

Wes shook his head as he gazed at Spike. “I don’t understand how you put up with him all those years, even if you had no soul then. He’s insufferable.”

“Yeah, well, I reckon all that time locked up in Peaches’ skull has made him a bit mental. He was always a berk, but back then he could be a bit of fun as well, now and then. Now he’s just…,” Spike waved his hand in the direction of the cell, “bothersome.”

“He’s more than bothersome, I’m afraid. I’ve seen what Angelus is capable of. I shall have to….” He held the crossbow up.

“No.”

“But we can’t—”

“I know. Leave the old git where he is. He’ll stay nice and cozy for a bit, yeah? I’ve an idea.”

Angelus didn’t like the sound of that—Spike’s ideas never were very good. But it was better than an arrow in the heart he supposed so, as Spike and Wes gave him dual frowns and went back upstairs, Angelus settled himself as comfortably as he could in his cage.

 

***

 

Spike had come downstairs with a couple of containers of blood—not human, Angelus couldn’t help but notice, but fucking cow—and he’d tossed them between the bars for Angelus to scrounge like a goddamn scavenger. But Angelus was hungry and he drank the shit anyway while Spike watched.

“I never did understand you,” Spike said, leaning back against the wall like a rentboy. “You’re evil. All right, I get that. Been there myself. But what’s with the whole phony Hannibal Lecter shite? And the buggered-up schemes? Why not just go out, bite yourself a few pretty bints—or pretty boys for all that—have a shag or two, call it a night?”

“Don’t trouble your pretty little head over it, Willy-boy. You don’t have the brains to understand me.”

Spike snorted. “As if you’re some great mastermind. Your schemes haven’t worked out any better than mine. Remember that business in Antwerp? Oh, and Kiev, with the—what were they? Tbilisi demons, yeah?” He laughed. “That was a right fuck-up.”

“Shut up,” Angelus snarled and threw an empty bag at the bars.

“And just because you don’t have a soul doesn’t mean you have to be a bloody douchebag, ‘Gelus. Look at Darla. Okay, yeah, champion bitch, but she had class. She wouldn’t have buggered about with that sodding Judge rubbish.”

“Shut _up_!”

“Gotta tell you, too. Angel might be the king of moping and he makes some bloody awful choices as well, but he’s twice the demon you’ll ever be and ten times the man. Like that letter he wrote me—”

“Fucking pansy with his love letters.”

Spike shrugged. “Saved your sorry arse, didn’t it? Because Percy’s a good shot with that bow.”

“He got your frilly panties all wet.”

Spike smirked. “Not wearing any knickers.” He was, in fact, dressed in his usual tight black jeans and black t-shirt. At least the goddamn duster was nowhere in evidence, Angelus thought.

“Why don’t you do like Angel said?” Angelus asked. “Go hunt down Buffy and have her all to yourself. I sure as hell don’t want the cunt.”

“Well, it was a nice gesture, but the Slayer isn’t his to give away, is she? Besides, I rather fancy Los Angeles. I own a hotel now, you know.” And with a final grin he left Angelus alone.

 

***

 

He heard the voices before he saw them, and then he was furious. Spike was there again and so was Wes, but that wasn’t the worst of it, because tagging along with them was that fucking carpet-munching witch.

As soon as they reached the bottom of the stairs, Angelus roared and threw himself against the bars. Spike and Wes didn’t even flinch. Willow took a half-step back, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin, and then came forward.

“She can’t shove the damned soul back in me,” Angelus said. “It’s in use.”

Spike sauntered forward. “No, she can’t.”

“Then what the fuck is she doing?” Because Willow had sat herself cross-legged on the floor and she was pulling a variety of small items out of a striped canvas bag. Wesley was hunkered down, watching her with great interest.

“Hocus-pocus, of course. Perhaps she’ll turn you into a frog.”

Angelus wanted to punch that smug face, to smash those cheekbones into bloody pulp. “ _What_ is that bitch doing?”

“Saving you, you great twat.”

“Spike? I’m ready,” Willow said.

Spike gave Angelus a strange and unreadable look and then he went to sit beside her on the floor. She started chanting and a tendril of purplish smoke rose from the pile of rocks and other debris near her feet. The tendril swayed in front of her as if she were a snake charmer, and then veered off to hover in front of Spike.

“You ready?” Willow asked.

Tight-jawed, Spike nodded. She made some little gestures with her hands and crumbled something on top of the rocks. Then she said a few more words in a shrill voice that didn’t sound like hers. The wisp of smoke grew larger and thicker and, as Spike sat very still, it wrapped itself around him and then entered through his ears and nose and eyes and mouth. Spike screamed but it sounded choked, like he had something stuck in his throat. Then he fell sideways and lay there on the concrete floor, twitching slightly.

“You got the wrong vampire, witch,” Angelus sneered.

But Willow smiled at him triumphantly. “Oh, I don’t think so, mister. _Cesuo dule!_ ” She shouted those last words and her hair stood up on end.

The smoke reappeared, pouring from the same openings in Spike’s body, but now it was a paler color, a sort of lavender, and it came towards the cell. “Get that thing away from me!” Angelus cried, but Willow kept on muttering in something that sounded like Mandarin but wasn’t and the smoke kept flowing towards him. He backed away, but he had nowhere to go. The smoke weaved its way between the bars, swirled for a moment, and then headed straight at him.

“Don’t you dare, you fucking—” he began, but then the smoke was in him, and a familiar taste was on his tongue and he couldn’t see anything at all.

 

***

 

“Rise and shine, sire.”

He blinked and tried to clear his vision. He was…back in that room in the Hyperion. Lying on a bed, with Spike perched on the mattress next to him, a glassful of red liquid in his hand.

“’T’s not human, but it is otter. Not bad, really.”

“Spike?”

“What, did you lose your memories, Liam?”

“No. No. But…what happened?” He tried to sit up but Spike had to help him because he was dizzy. He looked down at where the sheets fell away from his torso and realized he was naked.

Spike smiled. “You were a bit ripe from sitting in that cage. The stink was getting to me. So I hauled your fat arse into the tub and gave you a bath. It’s not as much fun when the bloke being bathed is unconscious.”

“But…I don’t understand. What did you do? Willow was…and you fell, and the smoke…. What the hell happened?”

“Got rid of ‘Gelus for good. You’re quite a nice demon when that wanker’s not driving, you know. Thickheaded and sullen, but nice.”

“Spike, what—”

“Good news or bad?”

Angel had to think about that one a moment. “Good, I guess.”

Spike smiled broadly. “Good news is you can be as happy as you want to be. No more Gypsy sodding curse.”

“But I’m not…I’m not Angelus.”

“Red found a permanent way to stick a soul on. Only problem was you gave yours away. Git.”

“So…?”

“So that’s the bad news bit. You’re stuck with me for good. We get too far apart—Red reckons more than a few miles—and we’ll both be in a world of misery.”

“I don’t understand.” His head was hurting and he rubbed at it. And why did his mouth taste like Spike?

“Your soul’s gone, and it’s not as if you can just pop on down to Walmart and pick up another, innit? Most blokes hold onto theirs pretty tight; they don’t shed them like dirty socks.”

“But I feel…I feel—”

“Brave and quick and dead sexy? That’s because it’s my soul you’re wearing now. Well, part of it anyhow.”

“I swear to god, Spike, if you don’t start making sense I’m gonna dust you.”

Spike rolled his eyes and flopped down on the mattress beside him. He lifted Angel’s right hand in his left and interlaced their fingers. “Witch couldn’t get your own soul back so I’m sharing mine. I read it in a book once when I was hanging about with the Scoobies. I thought the soul would be cut clean in half like a loaf of bread, but apparently it doesn’t work that way. We share the whole thing together. Like flatmates.”

“You’re letting me use your soul?”

“Well, yeah. Mind you, I expect you to take bloody good care of it. It came very dear.”

Angel was silent, trying to let this sink in. He didn’t pull his hand away from Spike’s though, because it felt good to be together like that. Like he was a puzzle with a missing piece found.

“How does that work?” he finally asked. “Sharing a soul?”

“Dunno. Never done it before, have I?”

“But you were willing to do this for me.”

“You sold your whole soul for me—I reckon I can at least lend you half of mine. ‘Course, you might rub off on me now. I might turn into a brooding prick.”

“And I might become an exasperating, swaggering moron.”

“You should be so lucky,” Spike said and leaned his head on Angel’s shoulder.

“I should,” Angel whispered. Then he closed his eyes and felt…happy.

 

 _  
~~~fin~~~  
_

 

 


End file.
